


Give Yourself Completely

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angry Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's only charity when Gansey gives you stuff because he doesn't want anything from you.” </p>
<p>“And you do?” A dumb question, but Adam asks it anyway. </p>
<p>Ronan’s grin is a knife so sharp you wouldn’t even know you’d been cut until there was blood all over your fingers. “You know I do.” </p>
<p>(Ronan buys Adam something and Adam...reacts accordingly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Yourself Completely

**Author's Note:**

> After talking all that shit about how I don't like reading/writing fic based on books, here I am writing Adam/Ronan. I'm weak.

“No,” Adam says. “Absolutely not.”

He’s exhausted. He just worked a seven hour shift at the garage, and Cabeswater has been rattling windows and fogging mirrors all day long. When Ronan had showed up at his door, part of Adam had wished he was just another apparition.

Ronan snorts in practiced derision. He’d had to have known what Adam’s answer would be, which means he’d come here looking for a fight. “Christ, Parrish. They’re just pants.”

“They’re designer jeans,” Adam says. Or he assumes they’re designer. To look at the tag he’d have to take them out of the bag, and he isn’t going to do that. It’s made of paper, matte black with NORDSTROM stamped across it in white letters, and it’s still the classiest thing in his apartment. All of Adam’s stuff—the plastic dishware, the overturned box for a nightstand, the frayed bedspread—they’re all a backdrop for that bag. And for Ronan. He’s in his usual uniform of jeans and a muscle tank, but he’s still obviously worth more than everything here.

“They were only sixty bucks.”

“Sixty—Ronan, I could buy food for two weeks with sixty bucks!”

“Well, they’re your jeans now,” Ronan says. “You can eat them if you want. Put them in a fucking marinade.”

“Why did you get them for me?”

“What does it matter? You’re going to wear them anyway. You can skip the obligatory bitch-fit.”

Rage pulses like a heartbeat in Adam’s palms and temples, like the hum of Cabeswater, except closer, more familiar. A pair of shoes that have been worn so often, they’ve molded to your feet. “I don’t want your gaddamn charity.”

“Fuck you,” Ronan says. “It's only charity when Gansey gives you stuff because he doesn't want anything from you.”

“And you do?” A dumb question, but Adam asks it anyway.

Ronan’s grin is a knife so sharp you wouldn’t even know you’d been cut until there was blood all over your fingers. “You know I do.” He is already leaning against the wall (why stand when you can slump?) so it’s easy for Adam to pin him there. One palm pressed to his shoulder, the other to the center of his chest. His body is so warm he feels feverish, even through his clothes.

“I want it all,” he says, soft and wild. Ronan’s mouth is inches from Adam’s and Adam is the one who put it there.

Adam breathes in and tastes the damp, green-soaked air of Cabeswater, feels the leyline’s potential energy under his skin. He has Ronan pinned to the shoddy drywall of his apartment, but they’re also pressed up against the truck of an ancient tree, the woods whispering around them. Cabeswater knows Ronan, recognizes the Greywaren as easily as Adam could pick him out of a crowd. It wants Adam to do this. It doesn’t understand sex—it’s too physical, too ephemeral—but it knows power and it knows desire.

“Do you feel that?” he asks Ronan.

Ronan is breathing with his entire body, chest heaving against Adam’s. “Yeah.”

He might not mean Cabeswater, Adam realizes. It’s more likely he means Adam’s erection, which is pressed up solidly against his thigh.

How had they gotten here from pants?

Then again, it feels like they’ve _always_ been here. Heading here, or moving away. A moment that’s roots spread out through this lifetime and all the ones that have come before and after. This has always been happening. Whatever choice he makes doesn’t matter because he’s made it before. Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe that makes it matter more.

The part of him that is still Adam Parrish knows this is sort of a big deal, even if Cabeswater can’t understand the implications. Ronan Lynch doesn’t do things halfway, and he doesn’t do casual. He would make the world’s worst boyfriend. Or worst apart from Adam.

Behind him, the table and rickety bookshelf start to shake, like an eighteen-wheeler is passing by outside, and Adam feels the irresistible pressure of Cabeswater prodding at his consciousness.

Ronan’s voice rumbles in his chest before the words come out of his mouth. “Make a move, Parrish. Or get the fuck off me.”

Adam takes Ronan’s face in his hands, more possessive than romantic, traces his fingers across sharp cheekbones. The kiss begins a chain reaction, a constant conjunction of teeth and gums, blood and bone, arms and legs as Ronan shoves Adam as hard as he can, gets him up against the edge of the table.

“Ronan—.”

"Shut up,” Ronan snarls. He bites at Adam’s throat, shocking a hot spark down his spine. He kisses as viciously as he hates, as he loves

Thoughts flit in and out of Adam’s awareness, thoughts like _Do I want Ronan, or does Cabeswater want him? Does Ronan want me, or would he prefer an Adam Parrish he could dream up?_ And, _If we break this table, will I be able to afford a new one?_

But he doesn’t say any of this, just grips tight to Ronan’s hips as he licks a long line up Adam’s neck. He probably tastes like an engine, but Ronan probably likes it. Ronan’s kisses are rough and jarring and his fingers are probably going to leave bruises on Adam’s hips. Ronan is overwhelming.

But Adam has spent the last several months riding the cacophonous ebbs and flows of a sleeping power, and he hasn’t drowned yet. He can ride this too.

           

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So come on, honey, blow yourself to pieces  
> Come on, honey, give yourself completely  
> And do it all although you can't believe it  
> Youth knows no pain. 
> 
> -"Youth Knows No Pain", Lykke Li


End file.
